GOOD-BYE OLD FORTY-FIVE

The trails are safe; old foes forgot;
We've shook the lad of gun and dirk.
The West has turned from blood to sweat
And put her fightin' strength to work;
And now, with outlaw, brave and scout,
Old Forty-Five, you're goin' out.

In old times, when things were raw,
You yelped the happy man's delight;
You spoke the thunder of the law;
You howled red murder through the night.
For good or bad, for court or dive,
You had your word, old Forty-Five.

But when you plugged a good man's vest
I reckon you were misled.
I think about you at your best,
The way I would a pard that's dead,
Though these new settlers snort and flout
Your virtues, now you're goin' out.

Rememberin' that wild old land,
The long, lone nights, the weeks on end
When feelin' you beneath my hand
Was like the hand-grip of a friend,
With all your sins I kaint contrive
To cuss you, good old Forty-Five!

We've outgrowed simple shootin' frays,
Yet still the fightin' spirit serves.
Our battles spill less blood these days,
But strain some harder on the nerves.
The West still calls for hearts that's stout
Though you, old boy, are goin' out.

In our new fights you kaint belong,
Yet leave us what we learnt from you—
The hand that's steady, swift and strong,
The eye that's quick and keen and true—
To help us 'long the forward drive.
Goodbye, old pard, old Forty-Five.

RIDIN'

There is some that like the city—
Grass that's curried smooth and green,
Theaytres and stranglin' collars,
Wagons run by gasoline—
But for me it's hawse and saddle
Every day without a change,
And a desert sun a-blazin'
On a hundred miles of range.
Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Desert ripplin' in the sun,
Mountains blue along the skyline—-
I don't envy anyone
When I'm ridin'.

When my feet is in the stirrups
And my hawse is on the bust,
With his hoofs a-flashin' lightnin'
From a cloud of golden dust,
And the bawlin' of the cattle
Is a-comin' down the wind
Then a finer life than ridin'
Would be mighty hard to find.
Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Splittin' long cracks through the air,
Stirrin' up a baby cyclone,
Rippin' up the prickly pear
As I'm ridin'.

I don't need no art exhibits
When the sunset does her best,
Paintin' everlasting' glory
On the mountains to the west
And your opery looks foolish
When the night-bird starts his tune
And the desert's silver mounted
By the touches of the moon.
Just a-ridin', a-ridin',
Who kin envy kings and czars
When the coyotes down the valley
Are a-singin' to the stars, If he's ridin'?

When my earthly trail is ended
And my final bacon curled
And the last great roundup's finished
At the Home Ranch of the world
I don't want no harps nor haloes,
Robes nor other dressed up things—
Let me ride the starry ranges
On a pinto hawse with wings!
Just a-ridin', a-ridin'—
Nothin' I'd like half so well
As a-roundin' up the sinners
That have wandered out of Hell,
And a-ridin'.